


who lives, who dies (who tells your story)

by lethargicProfessor



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Gen, Introspection, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethargicProfessor/pseuds/lethargicProfessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. Bookman reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who lives, who dies (who tells your story)

His apprentice is too young, nothing but skin and bones, but the green eyes are sharp as they survey the town, drinking it in with a sense of wonder.

It is nothing he hasn’t seen before. The rubble has yet to be cleared, and as they approach, the soft sounds of mourning drift through the air.

He half expects an army of akuma to greet them at the gates, their mechanical bodies shifting together, canons ready to cause more destruction.

Thankfully, it is not the case as they quietly slip through the town, despite the funeral processions they come across. It is the perfect seeding ground for despair, for the Earl’s influence to come through.

(He has to stop for a second to remind himself that the war is over. The Earl is dead, and the akuma have been destroyed along with their maker. These people can grieve in peace.)

“What do we do?” His apprentice asks, voice soft and reedy, hesitant but burning with curiosity.

“We record. We write their stories.”

His apprentice nods, tiny fingers gripping his sleeve as they make their way through town. They watch the people flow past them, two unremarkable figures in the world.

The child fusses for a second, tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. Bookman glances down, interested but unsurprised. Children, even normal children, are always full of questions. The child coughs faintly. “How do we decide what gets written down?”

It is a good question.

He pats the child’s head lightly, easing them out into the crowd of people. “How would you do it?”

The child is not expecting a question as an answer, and their brow furrows as they think about it. At length, they look up, a confused expression on their face. “I don’t know.”

“What do we do?” Bookman asks, leading the child along.

At this they perk up; this answer they know. “We record hidden history.”

“We do,” Bookman acquiesces, scooping the child up and onto his shoulders. The child squeaks in surprise, tiny fingers digging into his hair. He winces, holding the child steady as he navigates the crowds. “But what counts as ‘hidden’?”

He feels the child puff indignantly. “I don’t know.”

“What is ‘hidden’ to one might not be to another,” Bookman philosophizes, amused at the light tug the child gives to his hair. “It might not be important.”

“Who decides what is important?” The child asks, easing their hold on his hair. “What makes one more important than another?”

Bookman says nothing, letting the child stew as they reach an inn. He sets the child down carefully, rolling his shoulders. He isn’t as young as he once was. The war made sure of that. “Importance is a matter of subjectivity. What is important to one person isn’t to another.”

The child draws themselves up again, cheeks puffed in annoyance. “Then we write everything? But what if it’s not important?”

Bookman pats the child’s back, ushering them into the inn. “Everything is important. Every detail you see, as insignificant as it may seem. It is all relevant.”

They settle for the night and their conversation is forgotten as they move onto the next town, the train taking them through war-torn city after war-torn city. Bookman sees the light dim from the child’s eyes, and feels a twinge of regret. It is necessary for them to record the destruction, but time has yet to make it any easier.

They mill about the London train station for a few hours, watching the bustle of people, their faces drawn and pale as they scurry to their destinations. War leaves a certain taste in the air, one Bookman is far too familiar with.

They sit and they watch, his apprentice asking questions every so often. The child is studying his surroundings; Bookman is reflecting on his past. If he thinks back enough, he can still recall the days before when London still carried hope.

He wonders idly if he’ll meet anyone he knows, or he used to know, but London is a big city and the chances are slim.

So he tells himself.

Still, he stands with a soft groan, holding his hand out to the child. It’s getting late and they need to sort out their arrangements for the night.

They wander through the streets, familiarity prickling at Bookman’s mind at every turn. They pass a bakery and a tailor shop and a bookstore, and he tenses when someone shouts. 

“Lavi!”

And the voice is older, but not unrecognizable.

Bookman turns to face the man with a smile that might have belonged to ‘Lavi’ once upon a time. “Johnny Gill.”

The years have been good to him, despite the scars they all carry from the war. The smile he gives him is bright, taking in his apprentice with a curious look. “Oh…right, I’m sorry. I forget you’re Bookman now.”

Bookman nods with a faint shrug. “It happens. How have you been, Johnny?”

He feels his apprentice’s questioning glance as Johnny beams, hurrying over to hug Bookman. “Good! Good. I didn’t think I’d see you again!”

Bookman hadn’t either, but he finds it best not to mention it. “I thought you were returning to America.”

“I did!” And Johnny’s smile dims, clapping the taller man’s shoulder as he steps back. “I took over my grandmother’s shop until she passed. I just missed the city, so I came back…”

Bookman nods, squeezing his apprentice’s scruff as the child begins to fuss. “It’s good to see you, Johnny. We’ll let you get back to work.”

“It’s fine!” The scientist laughs, and years seem to shed off him as he stares at his apprentice. “Why don’t you two stay the night with me? It’s not a very big place, but it’s free.”

Bookman makes up his mind before Johnny even finishes his offer. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

They follow Johnny home, the tailor catching Bookman up on what has happened since they met last. He can tell his apprentice is bored, and only vaguely listening to their conversation.

The War is their main topic of conversation, carrying them through dinner. Johnny thinks it’ll pass. Bookman is unconvinced.

“I’m just saying,” Johnny shrugs, the wine glass in his hands dangerously empty. “They’ll settle their problems. No need to escalate things.”

“The assassination of an heir to an empire isn’t something they can just brush off.” Bookman points out. His apprentice is struggling to listen, but the late hour is starting to catch up to the small child.

“But a world war?” Johnny scoffs, standing slowly, motioning for Bookman to follow. “That sounds ridiculous.”

“We fought a world war.” Bookman scoops the child up, following Johnny to his spare room. Once the child is tucked in, the adults return to the table.

Johnny poured himself another glass of wine. “It doesn’t count as a world war if no one knows you’re fighting it.”

Maybe not, but it was certainly a global war. Bookman shrugs, and he lets a little more of Lavi out, shooting Johnny a lazy smile as he refills his own glass. “Who knows.”

Their conversation returns to _their_ war, and even though it’s been so long, it feels like no time has passed. Johnny keeps tabs on the few people that are left; Miranda and Marie returned together to Austria, and Krory to his castle in Romania. There’s been little news from them since the war started, but Johnny’s optimistic.

Timothy and Emilia Galmar went back to France. That had been obvious, since the Phantom Thief G had returned to the scene. Bookman was glad to see Timothy was mostly doing it for show.  The rest of Johnny’s contacts were scientists or Finders; not many exorcists made it in the end.

They finish their drinks on a somber note, and Bookman wracks his brains to try to find something to lighten the mood. Johnny beats him to the punch.

“You can stay as long as you need to,” the shorter man sighs, his eyelids starting to droop. “I wouldn’t mind having the company. I could set you up with some new coats, too. Winter is coming, you wouldn’t want to be caught out in the cold.”

“Thanks, Johnny,” Lavi says, and he means it.

* * *

A few days later, Bookman and his apprentice are ready to set out again. There’s trouble brewing in Austria, and Lavi’s got a few friends who can give him some information.

“What do you think about Johnny?” Bookman asks, helping the child into a new coat. “Is his story worth recording?”

The child huffs for a second. “He’s just a tailor. Why would his story matter?”

Bookman pinches the child’s arm lightly, smirking at the startled squeak. “Johnny helped the exorcists fight during the war with the Millennium Earl. Without Johnny, there is a chance they wouldn’t have won.”

“Really?” The child turns to stare at Johnny’s front door, thoroughly unconvinced. “How?”

“He was a scientist.” Bookman stops long enough to button his own coat, digging through the bag Johnny gave him. “He made our uniforms resistant against the akuma virus, among other things. Many more people would have died without his help.”

His apprentice makes a face, glancing back to the door. “So he was part of the war. He’s in the records?”

“That’s right. Does his story matter now?” Bookman teases, easing a scarf around the child’s shoulders. Its bright orange color is nostalgic, and he tucks it into the child’s coat carefully.

“I suppose,” the child says, nodding slowly. “Is this why we record hidden history?”

“That’s exactly why.” Bookman takes the child’s hand, and together, they set off. 


End file.
